him before the Court of King’s Bench. So why should Beowulf risk killing him and so mysteriously? Again, how did the murderer enter and leave a locked chamber without hurt or hindrance? He must have come through that door as the only window overlooked a busy stableyard. Friar Roger claimed to have heard knocking on Scrope’s door, yet when he looked out, the Franciscan could see no one in the gallery.’ Athelstan paused to take a sip of ale and, as Bonaventure edged closer, abruptly rose to his feet. If a cat could smile it did at the success of its strategy. The little friar, as usual, went across to the buttery and brought back the milk jug to fill Bonventure’s bowl in front of the fire. The cat leapt down and nestled in the warmth to tongue the milk and revel in his achievement.
Athelstan studied what he had written. ‘
Nono
, Physician Scrope was fastidiously clean. According to witnesses he had been closeted in his chamber, yet his costly boots and cloak were splattered with blood. The same is true of the lantern horn, whilst the candle inside had burnt low. Scrope must have gone out on the night of the murder and didn’t have time to get the mud cleaned off his clothing. He must have, or might have, seen or heard something suspicious, so he was silenced.
Decimo
, the attack on Lascelles? Undoubtedly Beowulf, but was he also responsible for the other murders?
Postremo
.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Finally, the spy who declares he is residing at The Candle-Flame … is he only a spy or an assassin?’ Athelstan pulled across the sheets of parchment given to him by Thibault. ‘So many questions, Friar,’ he muttered, ‘and I am so tired.’ Athelstan kept reading but his eyes grew heavy and, putting his head on his arms, he slipped into a deep sleep.
oOoOo
Cranston had risen very early in the principal bedchamber of his now empty, rather desolate house. He’d stoutly resisted the temptation to mope and mourn the absence of the Lady Maude and the two poppets. Instead, he had washed thoroughly and clipped his hair, moustache and beard using an enamel-backed mirror, a Twelfth Night gift from the Lady Maude. Once satisfied, Cranston had dressed in one of his finest lawn shirts, a sea-green woollen hose, a blue jerkin and a dark-red mantle. He donned his silver chain of office, rubbed perfumed oil on to his face, collected his boots, cloak and sword then paused by the front door to recite a short prayer for his loved ones. He crossed himself, opened the door and went out to brave the freezing night mist which still cloaked Cheapside. Cranston strolled down the thoroughfare until he reached the Church of St Mary-le-Bow. He entered its incensed-hallowed darkness, which was lit fitfully by golden tongues of candle flame before the Lady altar. Cranston genuflected and entered the Chantry Chapel of St Alphege, where the Jesus Mass of the day was about to begin. Afterwards Cranston ambled across to what he called ‘his other chapel’ – The Holy Lamb of God – to be soothed by the tender ministrations of the landlady. Cranston dined on
cormarie
, a dish of the house: pork roasted in red wine, cloves, garlic and black pepper, served with freshly baked white bread. Cranston gave thanks to her and God as he ate and drank lustfully. Of course, within a heartbeat of entering the tavern the coroner was joined by two beggars, the constant bane of Cranston’s life: Leif the One-Legged and his comrade Rawbum, a former cook who, under the influence, had sat down on a pan of bubbling oil. Cranston was able to fend them off with a few pennies and so they left, shouting their praise and thanks.
At peace with God and man, Sir John then adjourned to his judgement chamber in the Guildhall where his two acolytes, Osbert the plump-faced clerk and Simon the meagre-featured scrivener had prepared the agreed schedule. The coroner ruefully conceded that the business of the day had begun. He listened to both men even though he was
Athelstan studied what he had written. ‘
Nono
, Physician Scrope was fastidiously clean. According to witnesses he had been closeted in his chamber, yet his costly boots and cloak were splattered with blood. The same is true of the lantern horn, whilst the candle inside had burnt low. Scrope must have gone out on the night of the murder and didn’t have time to get the mud cleaned off his clothing. He must have, or might have, seen or heard something suspicious, so he was silenced.
Decimo
, the attack on Lascelles? Undoubtedly Beowulf, but was he also responsible for the other murders?
Postremo
.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Finally, the spy who declares he is residing at The Candle-Flame … is he only a spy or an assassin?’ Athelstan pulled across the sheets of parchment given to him by Thibault. ‘So many questions, Friar,’ he muttered, ‘and I am so tired.’ Athelstan kept reading but his eyes grew heavy and, putting his head on his arms, he slipped into a deep sleep.
oOoOo
Cranston had risen very early in the principal bedchamber of his now empty, rather desolate house. He’d stoutly resisted the temptation to mope and mourn the absence of the Lady Maude and the two poppets. Instead, he had washed thoroughly and clipped his hair, moustache and beard using an enamel-backed mirror, a Twelfth Night gift from the Lady Maude. Once satisfied, Cranston had dressed in one of his finest lawn shirts, a sea-green woollen hose, a blue jerkin and a dark-red mantle. He donned his silver chain of office, rubbed perfumed oil on to his face, collected his boots, cloak and sword then paused by the front door to recite a short prayer for his loved ones. He crossed himself, opened the door and went out to brave the freezing night mist which still cloaked Cheapside. Cranston strolled down the thoroughfare until he reached the Church of St Mary-le-Bow. He entered its incensed-hallowed darkness, which was lit fitfully by golden tongues of candle flame before the Lady altar. Cranston genuflected and entered the Chantry Chapel of St Alphege, where the Jesus Mass of the day was about to begin. Afterwards Cranston ambled across to what he called ‘his other chapel’ – The Holy Lamb of God – to be soothed by the tender ministrations of the landlady. Cranston dined on
cormarie
, a dish of the house: pork roasted in red wine, cloves, garlic and black pepper, served with freshly baked white bread. Cranston gave thanks to her and God as he ate and drank lustfully. Of course, within a heartbeat of entering the tavern the coroner was joined by two beggars, the constant bane of Cranston’s life: Leif the One-Legged and his comrade Rawbum, a former cook who, under the influence, had sat down on a pan of bubbling oil. Cranston was able to fend them off with a few pennies and so they left, shouting their praise and thanks.
At peace with God and man, Sir John then adjourned to his judgement chamber in the Guildhall where his two acolytes, Osbert the plump-faced clerk and Simon the meagre-featured scrivener had prepared the agreed schedule. The coroner ruefully conceded that the business of the day had begun. He listened to both men even though he was
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